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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196946">A Trail of Light and Warmth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulibundtcake/pseuds/lazulibundtcake'>lazulibundtcake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Voyeurism, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), But only very slightly, Great Good Omens Snake-Off, Love, M/M, Masturbation, No snake sex though, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Wank, Scents &amp; Smells, Sex pollen adjacent if you squint, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Masturbation, a little angst as a treat, accidental headcanon, everybody gets a wank, pheremones, semen - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:54:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,891</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulibundtcake/pseuds/lazulibundtcake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Crowley loosened his coils and cautiously, quietly, slid his head over the edge of the beam, trying to see better. Flicked his tongue out, touched it to the organ in the back of his throat, and caught, all at once, the sharp musky scent of Aziraphale’s arousal.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The response from his form was immediate, and overwhelming.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Crowley's Demonic Side, The Snake Pit</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Trail of Light and Warmth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Great Good Omens Snake-Off 2020.  I am deeply honored to share this day with everyone, especially the delightful folk of the GO Event server.   You know who you are.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley hated rough sea crossings. He supposed everyone did, but that didn’t help how he felt them as a particular insult.  The movement of the waves and the movement of his body never seemed to synch up. </p><p>But he had to be here, on this swaying wooden ship in the middle of the North Sea; on that point his orders were firm.  </p><p>So when the storm came blowing up he had stayed on the deck, in the wind, as long as possible; then had retired to his quarters, and become a snake.</p><p>There was a dark corner above the high shelf at the foot of his bunk where he could draw himself back into a draped pile, wrap several lengths around an exposed beam.</p><p>It was better, he had learned, to grip a ship tight, to ride the swells instead of fighting them.  Give in to the rock of the waves.  And like this he could sink down into cool torpor, to wait out the storm.  Counted on the relative stillness of calm water to rouse him.</p><p>In retrospect, he should have found a way to tell Aziraphale, or at least left a note.  He knew the angel was on the ship, but had not yet found an occasion for them to meet face to face.  </p><p>He had not considered, not seriously, that Aziraphale might come looking for him. </p><p>So when he awakened in the middle of the night, the storm still fierce, he wasn’t sure why, at first.  Until he felt the slide of awareness across his scales.  Something that prickled them, tipped their edges in warmth.</p><p>“Crowley?” Low knocks sounded on the door.  “Are you in there?”</p><p>Crowley couldn’t answer him, was too cold, even, to raise his head off his body.  All he could do was try to clear the fog from his eyes, to make sense of the soft darkness.</p><p>There was the sound of the bolt sliding back, and then a shaft of light penetrated the room.  Aziraphale peered in  -- Crowley could see his movement and form, although everything was still syrupy-slow -- and he then slipped around the door and closed it softly behind him.  In his hand was a shutter lantern that bathed him in radiance and threw the rest of the room into shadow.</p><p>“Are you here?” he whispered.  “Sleeping?”  He walked to the bed and found it neat and empty.  Frowned, and looked around the narrow quarters.</p><p>“Bother,” he said quietly.  “Is this even the right room?”  </p><p>Crowley, brain still thawing, was touched by a faint embarrassment, chagrin at his compulsive tidying.  He wasn’t Aziraphale, leaving crumbs and mugs and a ruffle of warmth in his wake; Crowley had pulled the cabin tight before retiring.  The angel would find no sign of him.</p><p>He concentrated, trying to flood heat into his body, but it was hard, sometimes, to command this form when he visited it so rarely.  Plus the room was sea-damp and chill, the only real warmth that which rose from Aziraphale.  </p><p>The angel was standing in the middle of the room, seemingly at a loss.  Crowley wondered if he would wait, or if he would leave.  Wondered what he would think if he saw Crowley in his current state.  </p><p>Aziraphale finally turned back towards him, lips pressed in a line.  Smoothed a hand down his front.  Then he walked over, and hung the lantern on the wall hook next to the shelf.  Didn’t even glance up, for if he had he certainly would have been able to make out Crowley’s dark coils in the shadowed corner.  </p><p>Instead he moved to the side of the bed, and then, carefully, eased himself down onto it.  Sat there with his hands clasped, feet flat on the floor.</p><p>He must have decided to wait, and the bed really was the only place to sit.  </p><p>Crowley had finally warmed up enough that he could probably speak, and he resigned himself to being revealed, to having to explain the situation.  Thought ruefully that he might even enjoy whatever needling the angel would definitely subject him to, as a result.  </p><p>He was flexing the long muscles of his body, trying to think of what to say, when he saw Aziraphale reach a hand up and pull back the top of the turned-up covers.  Then he leaned down - deliberately, slowly – and smelled his pillow.  </p><p>Crowley watched his broad back expand as he inhaled. “Hmmm.” Then he sat up, and ran a hand over the pillowcase.  Pressed his lips together and sighed.  “But where is he?”</p><p>Crowley wondered, a little agitated, what exactly it was that Aziraphale was smelling.  He had slept on that pillow for nearly a week, had put his own soft linen case on it. Was it only his human sweat, that the angel had apparently recognized?  Or something else, something evil?</p><p>Whatever it was, Aziraphale did not seem put off by it.  Crowley was suddenly glad that he hadn’t spoken, when he saw him lean over again, put his face to the pillow, and then stay there, eyes closed, breathing in and out. One hand curled up to his chest.</p><p>Crowley loosened his coils and cautiously, quietly, slid his head over the edge of the beam, trying to see better. Flicked his tongue out, touched it to the organ in the back of his throat, and caught, all at once, the sharp musky scent of Aziraphale’s arousal.</p><p>The response from his form was immediate, and overwhelming.   </p><p>It made sense.  The angel’s smell had been burned into Crowley’s brain for thousands of years, had been twined with desire for most of them, and there was no part of him, human or snake or fallen angel, that could sense that gorgeous scent-light mixed with animal heat and not <em>want</em>. </p><p>Crowley remembered wildly that males of his species would pursue mates for days, across miles of mud and rock, following a pheromone trail with single-minded intensity.  Blinded by a scent that awoke a fire in the belly and then shone, in the distance, like water.  </p><p>Aziraphale’s human form didn’t look right, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was that smell, that <em>smell</em>, and the knowledge of his arousal, his receptiveness.  The promise of softness, and of a wet, quenching, heat.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>The angel continued to lean over, had relaxed a little into the pillow.  Almost looked as though he had fallen asleep, although Crowley could tell that he had not by the quickness of his breath, the tension in his shoulders.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>If Crowley had had full control of his mind, his heart might have broken for him a little, for both of them really, to be reduced to this.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Because let's face it, Crowley had also taken advantage of such opportunities, had brought himself off desperately with one hand while he pressed the other to his face, gulping the smell of Aziraphale’s palm where it had touched his.  Had stolen a handkerchief, once, and worn it next to his skin until it disintegrated.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Because Crowley could command many things from the ether, coins and clothes and empty tables at restaurants, but the angel’s scent wasn’t one of them.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley didn’t think of that now, though, couldn’t think of much beyond his own mounting urgency.  He watched Aziraphale sit back up, curls a little mussed, lips parted, and glance upwards.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley froze, waiting to be seen.  But this glance was too quick, too internal, perhaps, to take anything in.  He looked at the door as well, and sighed again, and wet his lips.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Then, he put a hand on the front of his trousers, and squeezed.  Closed his eyes, and squeezed again, and then again, pushing his hips forward.  Breathed, and whispered, “<em>Angel</em>.” </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley almost fell off of the beam, and in his dreams later he did, fell down man-shaped, naked, and Aziraphale was naked too, but it was like hands didn’t exist, just mouths, and tongues, and cocks; and they were squirming together on the bed, trying desperately to make purchase, to find a wet place, a soft place, something to fuck and never quite doing so.  And he would wake up and need his human hands to finish himself.  Always wishing he could dream of Aziraphale's hands, or his mouth, anything but this endless sweaty slide.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>The ache of arousal was insistent now in his whole belly, threatening to spill out of him.  Down below Aziraphale stood up, the flush of his face apparent even in the swinging light of the lantern, and started to undo his buttons.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>What are you doing?</em> he almost screamed at him.  <em>What are you thinking? What if I walked in?  What would you do then, you ridiculous angel?  Are you - are you</em> hoping <em>that I will?</em></p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley was almost nauseated with desire, and his body was moving, wanting to curl, to squirm.  His scales rasped over the wood beam and -- Aziraphale’s eyes flashed up again, went heavenwards, and then dropped.  Could he really not see him there, in the shadows?  Could he really not sense him, on some level?</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Whatever Aziraphale had heard, or sensed, it seemed to lend him some urgency.  He dropped to his knees, knelt there on the floor next to the bunk, and in one movement pushed the blankets all the way to the bottom.  Smoothed a hand along the exposed linens.  Then he leaned into them, pressing his face down, and groaned softly.  Both hands busy, now, at the front of his trousers.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley had wild vision of himself lying there on the bed, of Aziraphale’s hands smoothing down his body, of his mouth pressed into his flesh.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He was in real danger, now, of losing the battle with his primal urge; of dropping down, in lustful snake form, on an apparently lustful angel.  An angel who was, at this moment, stroking his cock while he inhaled the traces of a demon’s smell.  <em>His</em> smell.  His angel, on his knees next to his bed </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And if human-shaped Crowley had walked in at this point, what would Aziraphale possibly have said or done?  If Crowley had walked in and said, <em>keep going.</em></p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>Keep going</em>, and what if he did?  Would Aziraphale let him watch, <em>want</em> him to watch?  Want him to bring out his own cock, match his strokes?  Would Aziraphale look slyly over at it from his place on his knees, say, “Oh, that’s just lovely,” and then take him into his precise and beautiful mouth?</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Or better yet, would he let Crowley touch him, finish him off?  Because that is what Crowley wanted, really, more than anything; to curl over him and hold him, press his belly into Aziraphale’s back.  To line up their bodies and kiss his soft neck and replace the angel’s hands with his own.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Because Aziraphale deserved to be held, to be loved exquisitely, deserved so much more than a cold pillowcase against his lips, a hurried hand in his trousers.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>All this gorgeous torturous imagining only occurred to Crowley later, because he was still fighting himself, hard, to keep from going to him.  From slithering down and entwining him and stroking him open under the assault of dark coils.  Rubbing relentlessly until Aziraphale spread, submitted to the muscle of him, let him fuck.  Invited him to.  Begged him, maybe.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He wanted to feel his flesh <em>everywhere</em>; on his long belly, between his teeth. </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And it felt good, in a way, to just <em>want</em>, for once; to let that flame simply swallow him up.  He was seized by a singular and desperate wish for this to be all there was between them, this uncomplicated call and response, the submittal of will to the body’s demands.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And maybe it could be.  Maybe he could uncoil now, and present himself.  Aziraphale was <em>right there</em>, mere feet away, his breath coming in gasps, one hand splayed on the bed, the other working furiously.  His body curved forward, face pressed into the sheets; and the pale back of his neck lay exposed, glowing, warm.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>But the last coherent bits of Crowley saw the danger. </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And because he had no hands and no recourse, because he would die before forcing Aziraphale -- even forcing him to make a choice, because what choice was there, to be made, when neither of them was free – he found or invented, in his feverish squirming, a deep smooth knothole in the wood of the beam he was wrapped around.  Gripped tight and expanded gratefully into it.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>It wasn't soft, it wasn't wet, but it was enough, he hoped, to keep him from answering the siren song of Aziraphale’s lust.  And Crowley had long since learned how to manage the bite of immovable corners, of tight unforgiving spaces.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And it happened not a minute too soon, because Aziraphale was calling out to him now, whispering <em>Crowley </em>at the bottom of each stroke, and every movement of his hands lifted fresh waves of his musk into the air.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley flicked his tongue in and out to pull it deeper into his brain, because on some level he remembered that smell itself was a kind of touch; that actual pieces of Aziraphale were floating through the air and coming into him; and he started then to pulse, to leak, liquid oozing out of him and overflowing the knothole.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Aziraphale let out a low grunt, shoulders heaving, his face muffled in the pillow, and on his next tongue flick Crowley caught the bitter fresh scent of his semen.  In the sudden silence Crowley could hear the steady drip-drip of his own seminal fluid as it fell to the floor.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>The angel lay there for two, three breaths, and then pulled himself together as quickly as he had come apart.  Stood up and drew the blankets back to the top of the bed, neatening the edges.  And then – he leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the pillow, before covering it up.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Crowley was still caught in the delirious throes of his climax.  He watched Aziraphale smooth his clothes, pull his hands through his hair, move over to where he had hung the lantern.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And he saw what was going to happen -- that he was going to reach his arm below Crowley’s knothole, that several drips of the overflow were going to land on his sleeve, or shoulder, or hair; and then it did, and then the angel had the lantern in his hand, and was walking to the door.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He stopped.  Put his forehead to the wood and stood there, for a few breaths, before pulling it open and leaving.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>It was several long minutes yet before Crowley could disengage, but as soon as he could he dropped down.  Slid onto the bed and wrapped around the pillow, smelling everything, the sunshine smell of his skin; places where their two scents had mingled; one glorious spot where a drop of Aziraphale’s semen must have landed.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>At some point he got back into his favorite form and remembered that everywhere he lay now was a place the angel has put his hands.  Where he had, perhaps, imagined Crowley lying as he put them there.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Aziraphale had come here, in this very spot, come with his name on his lips, with his scent in his nose.  These facts were enough to bring Crowley to orgasm a second, and then a third time, the last leaving him breathless and shattered.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>By then the ship was sailing on smooth water, and morning light was seeping under the crack of his door.  Soon Crowley would need to get up, get dressed.   Venture out and find Aziraphale, talk to him, to see if he could –</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>What, exactly?  What did it mean if Aziraphale just turned to him with his bright and artless smile?  As though nothing had, or ever would, change between them? </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He did find him later, in the brilliant sunshine, and when Aziraphale walked towards him saying, “I knew you were around here somewhere,” Crowley saw clearly how fucked he was, how fucked the both of them were.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Because he finally understood that Hell might actually find out; that this might not be something Crowley could just lie his way out of.  That if any of the Powers ever saw the bright way Aziraphale looked at him, they would be separated, and disciplined.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And Crowley thought he could bear whatever punishment Hell came up with, for associating, but he found that he could not bear the idea of Aziraphale being similarly punished. </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He needed to be prepared, then.  Needed to figure out a way to keep them safe, or at least buy them some time, if anyone came sniffing around.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>For now, though, all he could do was stand on the deck with him and make easy conversation.  Keep his eyes facing forward and his hands on the railing.  </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And as soon as he could, he checked over his whole body to find that drip or drips, any sticky wet spot, so he could snap them away before the angel noticed.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>But he couldn’t detect any.  Leaned as close as he dared, put his whole being into finding a scent of burning, of taint, but it simply wasn’t there.  It seemed to have been entirely absorbed.   Incorporated.  Vanished.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>So Crowley just listened to him talk, watching the shine of the sea ahead of them, and tried to plan for the future.</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I asked my brain for a simple snake wank and it presented me with unnecessary holy water meta.  You don't always get what you want.</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249947">Fanart of A Trail of Light and Warmth</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/horseboneologist/pseuds/horseboneologist">horseboneologist</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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